She wasn't wearing perfume on Wednesday.
But I'd never really thought of it as perfume, before.
Before the day that she went missing;
It was a part of her,
as much a part of her
as her walnut hair or soft hands or hard kneecaps.
It was hers, and it was of roses and sweat and heartbeats,
and it made my pulse race
and
it made me hungry and happy and loving--
But she wasn't wearing perfume on Wednesday.
And I looked at her on Monday and breathed her in and she was beautiful.
And the warmth of her scent was of blood and love and saliva and
quick little heartbeats.
And the fragrance of her flesh and breath was as much a part of her
as the blue eyes that seemed so deep to me,
once.
It was as much a part of her
as her soft lips or taut stomach or attached earlobes.
But she wasn't wearing perfume on Wednesday.
And on Tuesday, when my lungs were filled with her breath
and the arrogance of our desire challenged God--
I smelled
laughter and lust and a dozen little heartbeats
that flew by too quick.
And as I held her I was filled with what I thought
was her love for me
and with what I know
was not my love for her.
I could see my teeth in the mirror that leaned
against the wall behind her because I
was smiling.
I could feel
her against me and taste
the love on her lips and see
the desire in the depth of her eyes and hear
the softness of her whispers and I could smell
the beauty of her heartbeats.
But she wasn't wearing perfume on Wednesday.
Wednesday smelled like
new dandelions and exhaust and electricity but
it didn't smell like her.
My eyes were open and I could not see and I searched for her
amid the black
amid the grey and the shadow
and the sunlight and the gold, but
she wasn't there;
someone else stood here,
walking
where she used to dance,
wearing her skin and using her voice,
but it wasn't her because her
eyes were shallow and her
hair was dull and her
lips tasted like wax and her
words were empty and she
was ugly.
And I could feel my
head pound and my
heart twist and push and
gasp.
And I could feel my jaw
clench
and my fists strain
and my veins swell with angry blood
and my voice scream
and my eyes bleed and I felt
small.
And the clouds are steel grey and
they're steeled against the grey
and I envy them.
And where is the girl that smelled like roses and sweat
and blood and love
and laughter and lust and saliva
and a thousand slow heartbeats that flew by too quick.
Sometimes I think if I might have caught
all those heartbeats and
locked them away somewhere,
then I wouldn't be so cold,
today,
the day that smells like
dead flowers and exhaustion and frayed wires.
Today,
while I search for the girl that kissed me on a cliff by the sea
with the wind in her hair.
Today,
while I look into the shallow blue eyes of the girl that is almost her but not quite because she isn't wearing perfume today.
Today,
on Wednesday.